


You Mean The World To Me

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Series: a starving heart and a smile that makes it race [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apologies for past behaviour, Aziraphale gets lost in books, Aziraphale over identifies with certain characters, Established Relationship, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley, The Great Gatsby - Freeform, The bandstand break-up, and memories, fiction as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: After receiving a delivery to his shop, Aziraphale rediscovers The Great Gatsby and finds himself over-identifying with one of the characters. Or, what happens when Aziraphale gets drunk on books, gets lost in one and ends up using fiction to process his regrets.





	You Mean The World To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Knowledge of the main characters and plot of The Great Gatsby is required.

Aziraphale is utterly absorbed by his latest delivery of books. Since carefully opening the box and breathing in the dusty scent of old paper and antique binding, he has barely stirred from his desk. Turning pages with slow reverence, he has occasionally noted fresh tea at his elbow or the weight of a blanket over his shoulders that he had no memory of reaching for. Crowley’s presence is no more than a shadow blocking his light but before Aziraphale can even think to frown she is gone again, amusing herself in unknown ways and tolerating this lack of attention, at least for the moment, without complaint.

Reading a succession of novels, spiritual texts and volumes of poetry without so much as a pause has filled Aziraphale with a dizzying kind of joy but it must be said that the lack of breaks is starting to take its toll. He is starting to have trouble keeping characters distinct from each other. Every heroine takes on a very familiar profile, regardless of the description in the text. Tall, sharp featured, with long red hair and a wicked smile that distracts only momentarily from those brilliantly arresting eyes. Crowley is in every story, every verse, and though it is very pleasing to indulge in such imagery while he reads, Aziraphale is beginning to yearn for the real thing. 

Pushing aside a pristine first edition of The Great Gatsby without opening it, Aziraphale straightens up. It is a book he ordered with Crowley specifically in mind, thinking to read it to her, and oh, where is she? Aziraphale glances around hopefully but Crowley is not to be found conveniently lounging anywhere nearby.

Standing up, Aziraphale experiences a powerful head rush. So many hours sitting almost perfectly still will have that effect even on an angelic constitution. He grasps the back of his chair briefly, gives himself a little shake. Having lost all sense of time, he wonders briefly how long it has actually been since he last spoke a word to his love, since he pressed his lips to the beloved sigil beside her ear, spoke the words he had vowed to speak every day to make up for all the ones they had missed. Perhaps she has changed form again, Crowley’s gender presentation is never predictable and Aziraphale finds himself more eager than ever to track her down.

The ground floor is empty. The air in the shop tainted with the faint whiff of neglect it always adopts when Aziraphale has left it closed for any longer than a week. It’s almost as if the books wish to flaunt themselves though Aziraphale stops short of believing they wish to leave him, even to have this suspicion would break his heart. Crowley, it seems, is either upstairs or out and Aziraphale is fairly sure he would know if she was not in the building. He has got better at detecting her presence and has been working on refining it. He remains hopelessly behind Crowley in this regard who seems able to track him down wherever he might be with little to no trouble at all. Persuading her to reveal how she does this has proved frustratingly difficult.

‘What is it they say about a magician and her secrets?’ she would say, taunting him.

‘I would happily share the secrets of my magic tricks with you in exchange,’ Aziraphale would counter, ignoring the look of disgust this merits, ‘The rabbit in the hat is really quite simple once you get the hang of the false bottom.’

‘Animal cruelty is not my style, angel.’

‘Tell me how you find me then.’

‘Are you seriously telling me you’re going to harm an innocent creature if I don’t?’

And so the argument would go, both of them drawing closer and closer together until the purpose of it had been quite forgotten and the heat of their bodies had melted any actual irritation clean away. Aziraphale wholly approved of this way of settling arguments though it did mean that he was no closer to actually obtaining the information he needed.

Climbing the stairs, he listens for any tell-tale signs of where Crowley might be. If she is sleeping, he will not disturb her. At least he will try not to though he is not sure whether he could resist brushing her hair away from her face, even if that meant her eyes might open slightly to take him in and once she knew he was there, he would be powerless to resist leaning in to kiss her. Aziraphale is practically bouncing with every step now, his heart racing ahead of him. He stops on the landing, gathering himself in, and only then does he hear rushing water. Crowley is not in the bedroom as he had expected, she is running a bath.

Disappointment fights with desire as Aziraphale stands on the landing, inwardly debating what to do. He can imagine all too clearly the scene on the other side of the bathroom door. Crowley with her black dressing gown tied loosely around her, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, lazily stretching out a hand to test the water. She is taking some time for herself, and why not? Hasn’t Aziraphale been doing the same for days now? It is unlikely Crowley will appreciate being interrupted simply because Aziraphale has decided, finally, that he is lonely. Perhaps when she is finished, they can have dinner together. Aziraphale will content himself with this.

Having returned to his desk with a fresh mug of tea, Aziraphale returns to his books. For the next hour, he loses himself in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s prose or he tries to while simultaneously also listening out for any indication that Crowley might be about to appear. This duality of focus results in a curious merging of both worlds, the real one settling on and influencing the fictional so that Aziraphale begins to read not the story Fitzgerald intended but his own altered, sharpened version as bright and startling as one of Gatsby’s parties.

Through a combination of Nick Carraway’s eyes and his own, it is easy for Aziraphale to see Crowley as a Gatsby-ish figure, effortlessly elegant, the air of mystery around him every bit as sharp as the cut of his suit. This makes Aziraphale the Daisy of the story which, though not as flattering a role as he would have preferred, does fit uncomfortably well with how he had behaved towards Crowley for so long. Delighting in his presence, encouraging it, demanding it even, but always ready to retreat back to the supposed safety of the familiar. As Aziraphale reads on, Daisy’s husband, Tom, brash and arrogant, unshakeably secure in his view of the world and everyone in it, begins to look more and more like Gabriel, and Gatsby’s pain at not being able to draw Daisy away from him cuts deeper and deeper.

The words begin to blur. Aziraphale stares down at the same spot on the same page, unseeing. Memories are rising to the surface, memories he has chosen not to think about for far too long.

Crowley is standing on the edge of a dock, looking out over a bay awash with thick mist. It is unmistakeably him though Aziraphale never saw him in the 1920s, no one did. Aziraphale wants to join him, put his arm around his waist, pull him close, but he is a mere spectator, an observer with neither form nor voice to make his presence known. Crowley remains absolutely still, alone in the cold watching a green light flashing across the water, the only bright spot visible through the gloom.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes on Crowley and is unaware at first that the scene has shifted. A loud quack alerts him to the change and Aziraphale is struck by a sudden pang of familiarity as the grounds of St James’s Park come into focus. Crowley is still standing beside the water, looking out over the pond, the ducks gathering expectantly before him are roundly ignored. He is tense, agitated, checking his watch and grinding his teeth and suddenly he is striding off, tracing a well-worn path they have taken together many times. Aziraphale knows where he is heading, remembers well the first time they had chosen the bandstand as a meeting place but this is not the first time. This is the last time.

Aziraphale starts to panic, wishing to break free of this waking dream. He does not want to relive this. There’s a reason they haven’t been back there. They’ll go and feed the ducks but they have an unspoken agreement never to venture anywhere near the bandstand, at least Aziraphale has assumed they are in agreement, Crowley has certainly never tried to force the issue. Aziraphale tries once more to focus on the book he still holds in front of him but Crowley is too present in his mind, his distress pulling him back into the past.

Aziraphale watches him pace. Is Crowley early or was Aziraphale late to this most important of assignations? Crowley is still wearing his Gatsby style suit, Aziraphale realises, and the Aziraphale that arrives on the scene is not Aziraphale at all but Daisy, her flapper dress shimmering, beaded headpiece glinting in the remains of the evening’s light. Aziraphale frowns in confusion and only realises that Crowley and Daisy are speaking when Crowley’s voice rises, cursing God’s plan and making both Aziraphale and Daisy wince. The dissonance between the real and the fictional are giving Aziraphale a headache.

‘May you be forgiven!’ Daisy says. And oh, Aziraphale feels it then, the shift. He seems to be tuned into Crowley’s emotions in a way he certainly was not back then, and he feels Crowley’s raw fear give way temporarily to exasperated disbelief.

‘I won’t be forgiven. Not ever.’

Crowley doesn’t understand, can’t see what Daisy is asking of him. Step over to my side, she is pleading, choose us, pick Heaven.

‘You were an angel once.’

It was meant as a reminder not a taunt.

‘That was a long time ago.’

Crowley’s dismissal, his refusal to even consider changing path, hurts even now. Aziraphale sees the misery on Daisy’s face, sees the moment she realises that she is really going to have to make the choice she has been putting off for as long as she can.

They bicker, their tone belying the fact that they are talking about the murder of a child, but neither one of them has forgotten what is at stake. For the world, for the both of them.

‘You are ridiculous. I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you.’

Crowley turns to leave. Daisy calls him back. And he returns, without question. Aziraphale’s heart is squeezing painfully tight. He wants to turn away, doesn’t want to hear, but he seems unable to do anything but bear witness to the unfolding tragedy.

‘We could go off together.’

Crowley has considered it, wanted it, longed for it, for so very long. He could truly be Gatsby in that moment, opening himself up, telling Daisy that everything he is belongs to her, showing her all he has done, all he has sacrificed to get them here, all that he will do if she just says yes. Aziraphale can feel all of it, and though he knows what is about to happen, he finds himself pleading silently for a different ending. Nothing changes, of course. Daisy does what she was always going to do when the moment came.

‘Go off together?’

Crowley’s emotions are chaos now, everything everywhere. He is on the edge of utter hysteria, his lifeline thrown out and left uncaught. Aziraphale can see the invisible wound Daisy has inflicted upon him, sees the hope bleeding out. He wants to press his hands to it, wants to sew it back up with kisses, with tears.

‘How long have we been friends? Six thousand years?’

Daisy tries to harden her expression, her resolve.

‘Friends? We aren’t friends. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you.’

‘You do.’

Crowley steps forwards. Still, after everything, he is willing to be the one to risk it all. And that’s when Daisy snaps, cutting the final thread between them. Her words are bullets, fired one after the other. At first Crowley does not appear to react but no one can mistake the finality in Daisy’s voice as she says, ‘There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley. Not any more. It’s over.’

Aziraphale feels the impact of this like an earthquake in his soul. He pushes Crowley’s feelings away from him because they’re worse, so much worse than he can cope with. Both he and Daisy watch him leave. Daisy wraps her arms around herself, shivering in the cold, ridiculous in her strappy dress. Aziraphale hates the very sight of her. She never wanted Crowley the way he wanted her, never had a hope of matching his love, and now he’s gone, and if he dies without her, so what? It won’t be her fault, she was not the one who pulled the trigger.

A wave of terrible regret propels Aziraphale right back to the present. Before he can even begin to understand what has just happened or separate what is real from the pages of the book he has all but forgotten, he is on his feet. The pipes above his head are gurgling, water rushing through them.

‘Crowley!’

His voice bursts out of him like a wild thing. He needs her. He needs her now.

‘Crowley!’

A sound on the stairs makes him spin around. Crowley appears. She is wearing one of Aziraphale’s shirts and not much else. Her hair is still damp, a darker shade of flame curling softly at the ends. The pipes continue to burble above them. Crowley spares the ceiling a single glance, reaches the second to last stair, remains there. She looks cautious, wary. 

‘Did I disturb you?’ she asks, ‘Honestly, angel, I’ve been trying to stay out of the way. If I’d known you needed absolute silence I would have…’

Aziraphale steps forwards. Crowley’s eyes widen and Aziraphale hates it, hates that she might ever think he would choose anything over her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m so very sorry, dearest.’

Crowley is trying to read his face, trying to catch up on the chunk of story she has missed.

‘What is there to be sorry for?’

Aziraphale swallows. He can feel tears, hot and urgent, building behind his eyes.

‘It’s the book,’ he says, pointing at the wretched thing, ‘And I…I see it now. I understand. I was so cruel. All those years. You must have thought the very worst of me. How did you ever…? Why did you keep coming back?’

Crowley quirks her head slightly, eyes narrowing. She looks worried now, scanning Aziraphale’s face. It’s maddening how patient she is, after all Aziraphale has put her through Crowley remains unshakably tolerant of all he throws at her.

‘Angel,’ she asks, her eyes sliding over the enormous pile of books he has finished reading teetering on the floor beside his desk, ‘Are you book-drunk?’

‘Am I…what?’

Words are crowding in on him, shouted, whispered, written, held back, all of them clamouring for attention. And through it all, a green light blinking on a distant shore illuminates the silhouette of his beloved standing alone. With a monumental effort, Aziraphale forces himself to focus. He has to explain.

‘The bandstand, Crowley. I never should have said the things I said. I never should have kept the truth from you. I never should have lied. I said we weren’t friends, I said I didn’t like you. And then I watched you walk away.’

Crowley descends the last two stairs, tries to interrupt but Aziraphale cannot stop himself now. He did back then and he cannot make the same mistake again.

‘I let you believe that I didn’t feel anything, that I didn’t love you. I did, Crowley. I did love you then just as I do now, and it was awful, so awful choosing them over you. And it was the wrong choice, I was wrong.’

‘Angel…’

‘Please, Crowley. Please let me say it.’ Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands, looks into those golden eyes, unshielded and so full of concern for him. ‘You mean the world to me, darling. You did then too and I never should have let you believe otherwise. I can’t take back what I said, what I did, but I can beg for your forgiveness for that day and for all the others when I was not brave enough to choose you.’

Crowley looks bewildered by this unexpected outpouring of grief fuelled confession. For a few seconds she simply stares back at him and Aziraphale meets her gaze without any attempt to hide his shame, his sorrow, his heartbreak. He could have lost her so many times. It is to Crowley’s gentle persistence alone that he owes his current happiness. Her unbroken faith that loving him was worth everything it cost her.

‘If there were anything to forgive,’ she says, carefully, ‘I did it a long time ago. What’s made you think of all this now?’

‘Oh, it was…’ Aziraphale feels foolish all of a sudden. Perhaps Crowley is right, doing nothing but reading without pause has frayed him in strange ways. ‘I started reading The Great Gatsby and I…he loves Daisy for so long, suffers for it, silently.’

Crowley smiles, and there is no sadness in it, no pain.

‘I’ve had a much better time of it than Mr Gatsby, don’t you think?’

Aziraphale feels a hot flush rising up his neck.

‘You’ve read it?’

‘I may have skimmed a few pages,’ says Crowley, airily, ‘Seems to me Gatsby was more in love with the idea of Daisy than Daisy herself. And she didn’t seem to love him much at all. Not like us.’

‘No,’ agrees Aziraphale, feeling his mind beginning to separate the characters, the two stories, ‘Not at all like us.’

Crowley draws closer to him and kisses him, soft and slow. She smells like honeysuckle, tastes like moonlight.

‘You should read it to me sometime,’ she says, when they break apart, ‘But not tonight.’

‘Not tonight,’ says Aziraphale, who seems unable to look away from her lips. She smiles again and he is transfixed, unable to believe that he has spent such an unforgivably long time ignoring her. Crowley’s smile widens, she has his full and undivided attention now.

‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ Aziraphale says, a little more breathlessly than he had intended.

‘Mmmm,’ says Crowley, ‘Want to make it up to me?’

Aziraphale nods as one of her hands clasps the back of his neck, the other sliding beneath his already untucked shirt.

‘Forty eight hours,’ she says, ‘No books. Only me.’

Aziraphale moves in, tries to kiss her but Crowley only allows him the lightest of touches, holding back until she gets what she wants. 

‘Only you, I promise,’ Aziraphale says, ‘And, er, Crowley?’

He takes a strand of her still damp hair and twists it round his finger. Crowley rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation, but Aziraphale sees her amusement. She knows full well how in control she is.

‘Gatsby or Daisy?’ she asks him, raising her hand, ready to click her fingers.

Before Aziraphale makes his choice, he thinks of the whole weekend stretching before them and all it could contain. It hardly seems right to make a decision either way when there is plenty of time for both.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all what I thought I'd write when I started this (!). Aziraphale processing through fiction makes sense to me, hopefully it's not hopelessly confusing to everyone else. And Great Gatsby themed role play? Well...why wouldn't they? 
> 
> Title and prompt from Freya Ridings' song "You Mean The World To Me."


End file.
